by Susan Wiggs
She slipped inside to find Mr. Quick speaking with an aging, rotund man who wore a garish suit of clothes and sported a thick mustache.
"Excuse me," she said, turning back toward the door. "I didn't mean to interrupt—"
"Mariah, wait," Mr. Quick said. "This is someone I'd like you to meet." He made an endearingly formal bow. "Miss Parker, this is Mr. John Bradford, publisher of the Kentucky Gazette."
She inclined her head slightly. "Mr. Bradford. I've read your paper."
He puffed his chest out and grinned broadly. "Then you're a friend of mine, Miss Parker. Mr. Quick has been telling me about your achievements."
"It's Mr. Quick's doing," she insisted. "I couldn't even write my name when I wandered in here over a year ago."
"She's quite remarkable, John," Abraham said. "She's been reading a translation of Chateaubriand's 'Atala,' and writes a fine hand, too."
Mr. Bradford cocked an eyebrow at Mariah. "Chateaubriand?"
"Yes, sir."
"And how do you find his work?"
"I—it's quite interesting, sir."
"But you don't care for it."
She flushed. "No, sir. He deviates much too far from the truth. I doubt there's ever been an Indian woman even remotely like Atala. I closed the book when she and Chactas escaped into the 'Allegheny desert.' "
"You sound offended, Miss Parker."
"I am, Mr. Bradford. No wonder the Indian is hated and feared by white settlers. Writers like Chateaubriand lead people to believe we are aliens who live in a fantasy world. But we are human beings, Mr. Bradford, following a way of life we've known for generations. We cannot understand the man who stakes out boundaries and claims the land as if claiming ownership of the very air he breathes."
Bradford stared at her in amazement. His attention had been arrested by the fact that Mariah had used the word we, aligning herself with the Indians.
Mariah took a step backward, expecting him to rebuff her. But, still gaping, he grabbed a sheet of paper and a pencil from Mr. Quick's desk and thrust them at her.
"Write it down," he said.
"I don't understand, Mr. Bradford."
"What you just said. Write it down—that, and anything else you'd like people to know about Indians. I'll print it in my newspaper."
Luke held a copy of the Kentucky Gazette with a vague feeling of guilt. While the harvest crew labored in the September fields, he'd been reading, fascinated, in the bright light of late morning.
When Luke had first seen the name M. Parker on an essay in the Gazette, he hadn't given it much more than a glance; Parker was a common enough name. But then he'd realized what he was reading. An essay as full of passion and flame as Mariah herself. Where had she learned to write, he wondered, and with such deadly precision?
In the words he heard her voice, saw her blue eyes snapping as she expounded her opinions skillfully, persuasively, demanding to be heard. Luke could sense Mariah's quiet anger as he read. She didn't sensationalize what had happened to her family; her straightforward narrative and subdued description were much more powerful than a graphic tale of the carnage Luke had seen at the Licking River.
He felt a strange ache in his throat as she told of readying her family's bodies for their journey into the world of the spirits. Not once did she beg for sympathy, but Luke felt her pain as if it were his own.
The hooded wall clock enumerated the moments as he continued reading. Cleverly, Mariah had decided to end her lengthy essay by describing other aspects of the Shawnee. Using words like an artist's paintbrush, she depicted her tribe's medicine man, whose gnarled old hands offered cures sent down by the ancients, and a crone named Cocumtha, who spun endless tales at the fireside while the women wove sieves from hackberry bark.
In her fifteenth winter, Mariah had met a woman called Outhoqua—Hair of Red Metal—a mysterious white adoptee who sang the Shawnee songs as well as the hymns remembered from her childhood, who read ceaselessly from her battered red-bound Bible with a curious raised design on its…
The words began to swim before Luke's eyes, and the blood drained from his face. His hands clenched convulsively around the paper, rending its edges. Somewhere in the back of his mind he heard a little girl's voice, singing with a militant air. Blinking hard, he reread the words, not daring to believe, yet feeling a terrible hope well up from deep inside him even as he denied it.
The door opened, and he stood quickly, folding the newspaper.
"What's keeping you, Luke?" Roarke asked impatiently. "We've got two wagons full of crew men waiting for…" Roarke frowned as he took in Luke's pale, shaken expression, the white lines of shock around his mouth. "What is it, son?" he asked.
"I can't go with you today," Luke said raggedly.
"Are you sick?"
"No, I…" Luke swallowed. His parents had accepted Rebecca's death years ago. To resurrect the hope that she lived before he knew for certain was wrong. It would only lay the old wounds open to more hurting.
Luke clutched the paper more tightly. "I've got to go, Pa."
"Son, you're needed here."
The men looked at each other tensely. Pushing his fingers through his hair, Luke said, "You know I wouldn't do this if it weren't important, Pa."
Mariah was humming as she pinned a load of freshly laundered clothing to the line. It was a tune she'd learned from Doreen, who had an uncommonly pretty voice. Mariah's mouth curved in amusement as she shook out a cherry-red petticoat. How the girls loved their gaudy clothes.
But her mind wasn't on the laundry, not completely. John Bradford had been effusive with praise for the first set of essays she'd submitted to him. He'd paid her decently and promised more space in the Gazette.
As she worked, Mariah was mulling over a score of ideas that tumbled through her mind. There was something endlessly exhilarating about sharing her ideas with readers, provoking their thoughts.
Luke Adair's sudden appearance startled her into dropping a pair of snow-white breeches onto the dusty yard. She picked them up, frowning at the brown streaks that soiled them.
Luke didn't seem to notice. A look of chilling intensity darkened his eyes as he thrust a crumpled copy of the Gazette at her.
"Did you write this?" he demanded. "Did you?"
Mariah was a little shaken by his harshness, the hand that bit into the soft flesh of her upper arm.
"I did," she told him quietly. "And it's the truth. Every word of it."
Her quiet dignity seemed to bring Luke to himself. He relaxed his grip on her. "Tell me about the woman you call Outhoqua," he said. "Tell me everything you know about her."
Mariah pulled away and edged toward her basket. "I've got work to do, Luke."
"Mariah, please."
There was a raw edge of desperation in his voice that startled her. This was important to him. She wiped her hands on her apron.
"I never knew her well. There was a strangeness about her, a distance. Outhoqua belonged to a Shawnee renegade warrior. His treatment of her was—dishonorable. Yet he'd made her completely dependent on him. The woman was loyal as a dog. She—"
"What did she look like?"
Mariah hesitated, forming an image from the shreds of her memory. She remembered Outhoqua's head of thick, curling hair, its color always a source of comment among the women. The image came together, and Mariah raised large, disbelieving eyes to Luke. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"Oh, my God," she breathed. "Oh, my God."
Luke impaled her with an intense stare. "Tell me, Mariah. What did she look like?"
She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Luke's jaw tensed with impatience. Finally, she found her voice.
"Outhoqua looks like you, Luke."
The newspaper dropped unnoticed to the ground. "Not Outhoqua. Rebecca Adair, my sister," he said in a ragged whisper. "Did she never speak of her family?"
"No." A look of pain flickered across Luke's face. "Luke, she never spoke of anything but her God. You see, she was touc
hed by madness. Black Bear was hard on her."
Black Bear. The name sparked a flame within Luke, contorting his features with rage.
"Where is she now, Mariah?" he demanded.
"I—it's been more than three years…"
"But you know them, Mariah. You know where she might be."
She nodded. "There is a set of villages on the far bank of the Wabash…"
He inundated her with questions, making her sketch a crude map in the dust. Having exhausted her memory, he started to leave.
"What will you do, Luke?" Mariah asked.
"I'm going after her."
"You can't," she said.
"That's absurd, Mariah. What do you expect me to do when I've just learned there's every possibility that my sister is alive?"
"It's not that simple, Luke. She's a Shawnee now. You can't just ride into the village and take her away. It would be like stealing one of their women."
"Do you think that will stop me?"
"You'd be killed."
"Better to die trying than to live knowing Becky is out there somewhere."
Mariah regarded him solemnly. At last she understood why Luke disliked her, why he'd always begrudged her even the smallest kindness. She was a Shawnee, of the same blood as Black Bear, who had ripped his sister from the bosom of the Adair family.
"I no longer wonder why you hate me so," she said softly.
His head snapped up. "I don't hate you, Mariah, I—"
"You hate all Shawnee," she insisted. "I've always felt it, your disapproval, the way you keep your distance."
She swallowed hard. There wasn't any choice, not really. She couldn't let Luke plunge headlong after his sister, brav-ing the Shawnees' displeasure, the malevolence of Black Bear.
"I'm going with you," she told him quietly, trying not to think about her duties at Nellie's, and Gideon, and the Gazette.
"No," Luke objected. "I can't let you do that, Mariah."
"But you will, Luke."
"I don't need the protection of a woman."
"Don't flatter yourself," she said harshly. "And don't overestimate your abilities. I'm a Shawnee, Luke. I speak their language; I know their ways."
"Mariah—"
She held up her hand. "Think of your family, Luke, your parents. If you go alone, they'll lose both you and Rebecca."
He stared at her for a long time. "Why are you doing this, Mariah?"
She began hanging the clothes on the line again. Why, indeed? What had he ever shown her but dislike, disapproval? Still, she would have died that winter if it hadn't been for him.
"I owe you my life. And Gideon's. I don't like feeling beholden."
"I never meant for you to feel that way."
The coldness in his eyes sent a chill through her. But she knew he was only trying to drive her away, rejecting her help.
"I'll be ready tomorrow at sunup, Luke," she said evenly. "If you're not here, with a horse for me, I'll follow you."
Anger darkened his face. She braced herself for a lengthy argument.
"Damn, but you're a hardheaded woman, Mariah Parker," he said.
Her head snapped up. She was sure he was insulting her.
But then Luke grinned, that wonderful all-encompassing smile that suddenly made her want to follow him anywhere.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Hance flicked the reins smartly over the twin bobbing rumps of his new matched grays. He'd paid for his four-month absence by having to field Roarke's painful, probing questions and endure Genevieve's long, assessing stares. His parents had always made him feel uncomfortable. They were so damned good, so willing to understand. Stop me, he sometimes wanted to scream at them. The hell with your indulgence, your understanding.
But Hance wasn't going to worry about that right now. All the time he'd been gone, traveling down river to New Orleans, keeping company with smugglers and prostitutes, trying to lose himself on the orange-scented levees of the port, one face had haunted him. A face with wide-set brandy-colored eyes and an absurd little turned-up nose.
He had every reason to believe she'd send him away, or worse, refuse to see him at all. Hance shook his head. Ridiculous, chasing after this churchgoing and far too forward girl, when he could be sure of a welcome at any one of a half dozen houses, with delectable young ladies dancing attendance upon him. Still, no one but Ivy would bring him the contentment he craved.
He rolled his carriage to a stop in front of the Attwater house. It was on High Street, near the university. The brick facing, twined with ivy, gave it a staid, settled look of security.
As he stood on the front steps waiting for his knock to be answered, Hance wondered what he was doing here. Ivy Attwater couldn't possibly need him, not with her indulgent parents and her books and her self-satisfied opinions.
She answered the door herself. Hance tried not to stare, but the intense longing that suddenly pounded in his heart took him by surprise. He placed his foot on the threshold. She looked different—thinner, perhaps, and a little paler than she'd been last summer. But the smile that lighted her face was exactly what Hance had been hoping for.
Ivy laughed, a musical, rippling sound that delighted him. "Don't worry, Mr. Adair," she said, glancing pointedly at his booted foot. "I won't slam the door in your face."
He joined in her laughter, knowing now how very tense he'd been. "I wasn't sure. I guess you weren't too impressed with me after the Caddicks' ball."
"Oh, but I was," she insisted, drawing him into the elegant house. "I was extremely impressed."
"Not in the way I'd hoped." He swept off his hat. "I've come to apologize, Miss Attwater."
She tapped a finger on her chin. "What about the flowers? The bended knee?"
He shook his head slowly, grinning at her playful tone. "Not for you, Miss Attwater. I think I know you better than that." He reached into the pocket of his superfine frock coat and drew out a slim calf-bound volume.
Ivy took it, the smile in her eyes so bright that Hance basked. "Shakespeare's sonnets—the Eld edition! Oh, Hance, you don't know what this means to me. Where did you get it?"
He grinned, shaking his head. What would Ivy say if she knew he'd won it at the gaming table of a New Orleans club?
"No fair asking," he cautioned.
She brought the book to her face, inhaling the smell of new ink. Hance basked in the warmth of her smile as she flipped through the pages. He watched, delighted, yet feeling as nervous as a schoolboy.
A slip of paper fell from between the pages and wafted to the floor.
"What's this?" Ivy asked, picking it up.
Hance composed his face. "Read it."
She sent him a curious glance but unfolded the note. He heard her breath catch when she saw the words he'd penned once he'd realized that nothing in the world meant more to him than her.
Marry me, love.
Ivy stared at the words for a long time. Then, slowly, she raised her eyes to Hance.
"What does this mean?" she asked finally.
He grinned. His smile had drawn countless women to him, but now he wanted to summon only one. "Exactly that. I want to marry you, Miss Attwater."
"Why?"
Hance hadn't anticipated that question. He himself had spent weeks wondering the same thing. It had something to do with Ivy's wholesomeness, her straightforward ways. She was good, so damned good. Hance knew it wasn't logical, but somewhere deep down inside him he realized he was hoping, by the mere fact of association, that some of Ivy's goodness would rub off on him, reform his flawed character.
"I like you, Ivy," he said at last. Then, with utter sincerity, he added, "Before long I'm sure I will love you."
She laughed, but she wasn't mocking him. "And you decided all this on the basis of our short friendship."
He nodded. "Don't you love me, Ivy?"
She looked at him levelly with those wide, clear eyes. "I don't know. Why did you leave, Hance? Why did you stay away so long?"
He took her han
d and kissed it. "I was ashamed of what I did at the Caddicks' ball… and after. I didn't think I was good enough for you, Ivy."
"And you do now?"
"No. But I've decided you'll have to accept me with all my flaws."
"Will I?"
He gave her hand a squeeze. "I insist, love."
She looked away. "Hance—"
"What can I do, Ivy? Shall I court you with flowers and pretty speeches, buy you presents—"
She shook her head quickly. "Not that, Hance. Never that." She glanced down again at the slip of paper, crushed now between their hands. "You shouldn't have put it to me like this, Hance. We need time. Time to be together, to get to know one anoth—"
He silenced her with a swift kiss, grasping her by the upper arms and drawing her against him. Hance knew as soon as their lips met that Ivy had never been kissed before.
He also knew, from the barely discernible sigh of longing that escaped her, that she was his.
The world loomed before Luke through the frame of his dun mare's ears. For a month he'd ridden across the stream-webbed wilderness of northwestern Kentucky, through hollows and hills and across great open patches of land, pausing only to eat, sleep, and rest the horses.
He glanced back at his companion and was rewarded by a cheery smile. Mariah's stamina astounded him. She matched his every waking moment, uncomplaining, working as hard as Luke when one of the horses became mired or when it was time to chase away the nighttime chill with a fire.
She knew the wilderness with impeccable woodcraft. She could name scores of plants and knew that one could chew a clean-tasting shrub like spice wood but cautioned Luke against the bitterness of buckeye and the bright poison oak berry. She hunted without blind searching, finding sweet berries growing hidden in the gorse. She could get a fire going in seconds by striking flint against steel and igniting a bit of charred cloth and dried sage.
Luke was hard pressed to best her in anything, until one day she begged him to show her a more efficient way to load his rifle. Her delight when she bagged a turkey filled his heart with a burgeoning warmth he didn't dare think about too much.
A hundred times a day he caught himself studying her, watching the clean lines of her profile as she shaded her eyes to study the terrain, the glint of sunlight in her inky hair, the way her slim thighs, encased in a pair of buckskins, hugged the flanks of her horse. At night he lay awake listening to her breathing and thinking about her in ways he'd never thought about any woman before.